


Baby, I'm a fool for you

by CherryRedBomb



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 1day1newmann, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Pre-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), This is brought to you by seeing a Muse concert last year, but they're both still scientists hence canon divergence, tagging that because that's what got me to finish editing and post this damn thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24217363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryRedBomb/pseuds/CherryRedBomb
Summary: "Despite liking the music, however, he wasn’t sure how a front-row-guaranteed/behind-the-scenes special package and live concert was going to go. Hermann was an eighty year old in the body of a man in his twenties. He dressed like it, acted like it, and every birthday that passed brought him one year closer to living his truth."It's that weird era in which the Kaiju exist and the world isn't panicking too much just yet, but the war we all know is coming soon. Newt and Hermann know this too, so it's a bit like a last hurrah, eh?
Relationships: Hermann Gottlieb & Vanessa (but she's NOT his wife- they're friends), Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	Baby, I'm a fool for you

**Author's Note:**

> Since this whole piece was inspired by a reflection on the sex appeal of Rock Stars following a Muse concert, it seemed right that I should name the piece with Muse lyrics. This line is taken from the song Supermassive Black Hole.

Hermann doesn’t know how he let himself get dragged into this. 

“I got the tickets for free Herm! I won them. And when you get shipped out, who knows the next time you’ll get free entertainment, or any entertainment for that matter. It’s a war front and we both know how you are with your work.”

Did they?

“Yes, we know how you are with your work.” Vanessa sounded almost disappointed in what he regarded as a prized work ethic. He was _dedicated,_ not obsessed. 

“And it’s that weird alt rock kind of stuff that I know you love too. Don’t even try lying to me. I found your Muse CDs that one time you stood me up in your room because you forgot to leave the lab.”

He sighed. He knew this. He knew all of this. Despite liking the music, however, he wasn’t sure how a front-row-guaranteed/behind-the-scenes special package and live concert was going to go. Hermann was an eighty year old in the body of a man in his twenties. He dressed like it, acted like it, and every birthday that passed brought him one year closer to living his truth. 

At least he was spending time with Vanessa. It was left unsaid, but he knew part of the request had been because who knew when the next time that they saw each other would be. (Or if there would _be_ a next time.) 

And so the line inched along. Because even a front-row-guaranteed/behind-the-scenes special package had a line in America. 

“Pssht. We’ll see.” But even so, he indulged her with a small, genuine smile and she elbowed him in the side with a returning grin.

…

What a goddamn ride, man. What a goddamn ride. 

Tonight was their last big show, the final goodbye on the Rocket Scientist’s goodbye tour. Because Newt was going off to war. Fuck. 

Well, he wasn’t being drafted. Too short, too manic, too weaselly and soft around the edges for the Jaegers. Nah, he was gonna get to put those 6 PhD’s he didn’t bother telling any of his bandmates or fans about to use. (He was always just Newt to them anyway and it wasn’t a secret that he was the biggest nerd of the bunch. They’d all been ready to give it a rest in the face of the war, so when Newt had suggested this specific timeline for the tour and mentioned he’d be taking off after, no one questioned his destination. They probably assumed he was some kind of Kaiju worshipper because of his tattoos anyway.) 

They had partnered with local radio to giveaway meet n’ greet specials so the mic check and set-up had wrapped up earlier than usual. People were already lined up around the block. Hell yeah: Dr. Newton Geizler, PhD times 6 and Rock Star. Not that anyone knew that though, again. Bandmates knew him as Newt and he actually had an alias for his music. An uninspired Johnny Muse. Did roll off the tongue quite nicely, didn’t it though? 

One of his bandmates, Johnny Deuce called out to him. (Newt had really, really questioned him when he unironically and very firmly said he wanted this to be his stage name. One: Newt was already going by Johnny Muse then. Two: It was basically Johnny Shit. And he was in Newt’s mind a shittier Johnny than he was. But also in his defense: dude was an instrument God. He could play anything,) “Meeting time, my man. C’mon.”

Newt ran over to them and the greetings began. He worried about his scratchy voice and drank some beer. He worried about getting too drunk, so he drank water and ate some food. He smiled and chatted, playing up his persona, which honestly just meant loosening the restraints he put on himself when out in the real world. He could really put the _man_ in _manic_.

Then in a slight change of pace from the photos with typical teens and college students, an absolutely stunning black woman in very concert-appropriate punk attire stepped in, seemingly dragging her grandfather in behind her. But that wasn’t right because first thing, definitely too white. Maybe could be grandparent by marriage or adoption, but that was going too far along a path Newt really didn’t need to go down. 

And anyways, on second look, Newt realized a couple other things: it was actually a quite young man despite the atrocious bowl cut and sweater-vest (had the dude never been to a concert before? He was gonna be sweating _buckets_.). Also: he was hot. Those cheekbones could cut glass. Newt could drown in those brown eyes. He was so distracted, he almost missed the introductions.

“-ame’s Vanessa and this is my friend Hermann.”

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” he corrected in a stuffy British accent, and Newt’s heart stopped. He almost didn’t catch the look Vanessa was shooting Hermann--one that sternly said _was that_ really _necessary?_

_His_ Hermann? At _his concert?_

Newt was gonna pass out. Hermann had no idea what he looked like. He wouldn’t know.

Newt wanted him to know. He was hot and he was Hermann and the years of letters were whirling around in his head like his thoughts were approaching ninety-mph winds. 

“Johnny Muse,” he said, holding out his hand. “I hope you guys enjoy the show.” 

\----

They took pictures which they’re told they’ll receive after. Vanessa received digital copies immediately in her email and showed them to Hermann, who cringed at the bunny-ears the lead singer Johnny Muse put up behind him. If the physical copies were to arrive after he’s left, Vanessa promised to send them out to him. 

It’s these details that Hermann went over again and again in his head as the opening band raged on. He had listened to the main act in advance--as much as he loved Vanessa, (she was his best friend, _only friend_ a niggling voice in his head said) there was no way he would’ve gone if he hadn’t liked their music--and enjoyed their music, but this group... Simply put, they’re horrendous. 

But Vanessa and Hermann are trapped in their coveted spots. He might have been able to break some ankles with his cane if he could get it to budge, but then how would they have managed to return to their places when Johnny Muse and his crew took the stage? 

A part of Hermann felt guilty about standing so close to the performers and disliking their performance; he considered trying to fake enjoyment but he was never a good liar. Never made the effort to stay in anyone’s social graces, so he didn’t know why he would bother now. 

When the set came to an end and they left the stage, he turned to face Vanessa. The grimace on her face mirrored his own. 

“I’m sorry,” she offered, “I didn’t get a chance to check them out. I’m guessing neither did you?”

“No. And I’ll certainly never subject myself to that racket again.”

“In their defense, they’re a local group and even if they knew they weren’t good, how could they pass up this chance?”

“Explain.” He shifted on his cane.   
  


“Hermann, don’t you see how many people are here? This is how the Rocket Scientists got their start so they do it every concert like a personal tribute. Some group gave them the chance to wow a larger audience and they managed to get signed.”

She grumbled as she dug in a jacket pocket, “Still, I don’t know how that group managed to get selected. Someone must’ve had a soft spot. I suspect nepotism.”

In the gap between groups, the press of the crowd had lightened up. Now that there was space, he poked his cane at her foot. “Vanessa, you always suspect nepotism.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I have my reasons.”

He frowned at her, ready to push the issue further so that they’d fall into one of their familiar conversations. Vanessa would blame nepotism. Hermann would ask why. She would provide some outrageous example, usually regaling him with a tale of someone they both knew from their early university days or one of her current coworkers. A smile crept its way onto his face as he anticipated her response. 

He didn’t get the chance to push her. At that moment, the lights dimmed and the crowd fell silent before going wild. Time for the main attraction.

Somebody somewhere started up a chant, shortening the headliner’s name to an easier, “ROC-KETS, ROC-KETS, ROC-KETS!”

Next to him, Vanessa joined in, and though he might deny it in other contexts, Hermann got sucked in by all the excitement and joined too. 

After the eternity that was the openers dragging on and the breaks ambling by, the main concert seemed to fly by in a single hectic, lust-fueled moment. People were jumping all around him and if it wasn’t for his bum leg, Hermann thought he would too.

The names of all the performers sounded ripped out of some nineties cartoon, but watching them strut across the stage stoked something inside of Hermann he didn’t realize was there.

And Johnny Muse. 

God. 

During the meet n’ greet, Hermann had been a bit taken aback by the man compared to the rest of his band. Each of them had the kind of grizzled rock star look that all of Hermann’s preconceptions had constructed, but this Johnny (there were two of them. Why?) was short, had a scratchy voice that sounded nothing like the vocals their songs projected, and wore glasses. He’d also seemed distracted or distant while they talked. The only thing rock or punk about him had been his tattoos, (Kaiju, Hermann had noted with distaste), his messy hair, and tight jeans. 

Hermann was thankful for those tight jeans now as he all but drooled at the man gyrating in front of him. He leaned back, pulling the mic with him as he sang into it, and still his hips moved hypnotically. Something about the performance had transformed Johnny Muse and Hermann was transfixed. 

  
He didn’t even mind the tattoos now. They blurred as the lead performer moved across the stage with unrestrained energy, allowing Hermann to simply appreciate the vibrant colors amid the flashing lights. 

Then one song came to a stop and before the next began, some stage hand slipped across stage and brought Johnny Muse a guitar. 

He strutted out until he stood with it at the very edge, caressing it for a moment as the crowd’s cheers and applause died down. 

“This next song,” he said, nodding back at the other band members before continuing, “well, I wrote it for a very close friend of mine who I’m supposed to be seeing soon. As far as I know, he hasn’t had the chance to hear it yet, but I think he’s listening tonight and--well I wrote it for him like I said, but this performance in particular...this one goes out to him.”

Then Johnny Muse looked down, seemingly just to reacquaint himself with the guitar, but making eye contact with Hermann as he did so. The intensity of the man’s gaze was like that Hermann usually reserved for his chalkboard when faced with unruly equations. It felt like being an ant under a magnifying glass in the sun, but in a pleasant way. 

It was fleeting, but the heat lingered as he began to play.

_Oh_ , Hermann thought as the song kicked into high gear, _hands._

He was grateful for the noise of the crowd when a strangled sound managed to emerge from his throat. 

…

After the final song and the encore concluded, the crowd began drifting out slowly. Hermann and Vanessa lingered, neither eager to join the train of people shuffling out of the double doors or to follow them into the droves of vehicles that would be inching towards parking lot exits for the next hour. A few other concert-goers lingered nearby, hoping to catch another glimpse of the band. 

“Thank you, Vanessa.”

She turned to look at him, smiling easily. “No need to thank me, Hermann.”

He placed both hands on his cane, intent on plunging forward with his expression of gratitude, while still in such high spirits, and before the dampness beneath his sweater set in with full sticky reality.

“Truly though, thank you. I never say enough how grateful I am for the people in my life and tonight-”

“Was actually fun?” The smile was a wide grin now.

“...was actually fun,” Hermann repeated with an answering smile. 

Vanessa opened her mouth to say something back, but before she got the chance, it dropped open in shocked silence. Wordlessly, she turned Hermann back around to face the stage. 

Looked like the lingering fans got lucky.

“Hey uh, Dr. Gottlieb, right?” It’s Johnny Muse. “We usually hand this out to one lucky fan because folks like it as a sort of concert souvenir and I have a feeling you don’t come to this sort of thing much so here.”

His arm snapped out, extending a piece of paper to Hermann. Surprised, Hermann stood dumbly for a moment before taking it from him, careful not to brush his hand despite the fact that they had shook hands earlier. The performance shook up his perspective on this diminutive man; sex appeal (part of Hermann wanted to cringe even as he thought it) was still dripping from him. Part of him was stuck in a loop, still thinking _hands_. 

A set list, with a rushed stylized rendition of the band name and scribbled signatures of all the members. 

When Hermann was able to tear his eyes away and looked up to thank him, Johnny Muse was gone. 

“Hermann, holy shit-” was all Vanessa managed to say. 

And that was before he flipped it over.

On the back was a nearly illegible message that he managed to decipher with Vanessa’s help. 

It said: _Meet me at the Coney on the corner of Fifth and Court in an hour. I wanna see you again. -Johnny Muse_. 

After they figured it out, Hermann only looked away from the page when Vanessa gripped his arms, getting him to face her.

“Hermann,” she said. “Holy shit!!”

...

Time passed like water through a sieve. He rode to the concert with Vanessa, so she dropped him off at the place, shutting down his protests with a knowing look. 

“That was not an invitation with a plus-one, Hermann. Text or call if you need me to pick you up later.” She winked and that was the last thing she said before pulling away. 

Hermann stared at his reflection of the 24-hour diner’s door. What about _this_ caught Johnny Muse’s attention? Anxiously, he licked a finger and tried to smooth down the ever-present cowlick in his hair. It popped back up defiantly. 

He sighed and pressed onward. Even waiting as they did, the damned parking lot line took nearly an hour to maneuver. He’s just made this rendezvous.

He stood awkwardly in the front, wondering how he’d managed to miss the distinctive man in the relatively small diner. He’s scanned every table and booth and hasn’t seen him. When he asked the hostess about a Johnny Muse and stumbled over the name, she looked confused and he began to despair. 

It must’ve been a mistake. Of course some rockstar wouldn’t be interested in what sweaty, nervous Hermann had to offer. 

He pivoted on his cane, ready to walk back out the door and call Vanessa. 

“There you are!” Hermann stopped.

“Sorry man,” Johnny Muse (should Hermann just call him Johnny? Mr. Muse?) panted from behind him, “I should’ve known you’d walk in the moment I stepped into the bathroom. I considered holding off but duty calls, you know?”

  
Hermann questioned his attraction to this man. 

He continued talking, unfazed by Hermann’s silence, and his hand ( _hands;_ Hermann ceased questioning his attraction) gently rested on his elbow as he propelled him towards a booth in the back corner, next to a side exit. 

When they’re both settled in the booth, Hermann tuned back in, catching just the end of his last sentence.

“-couldn’t believe that it was you. That I was finally meeting you!”

He was confused, must be. This made him sound like the gushing fan to Hermann’s stardom. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermann said, “but I was distracted. You couldn’t believe you were meeting me? I was at your concert so doesn’t it seem like that should be the other way around?”

“ _Hermann_ ,” Johnny said with such familiarity that he bristled, “you know me! But you don’t know you know me because I forgot to fucking tell you my real name.” He fell into chuckles, shaking his head in his hands, messing his hair up even worse than it was, even worse than the concert did. 

He stuck his hand out like he did during the meet n’ greet, except this time with a more embarrassed smile on his face. “Dr. Newton Geizler, but please--call me Newt.”

Hermann’s mind went blank. Then it rebooted at a million kilometers per second. He shook Newt’s hand, still thinking _hands_ , still thinking of that performance, now thinking of reports, of exchanged barbs and flirtations and corrections alike, sometimes hard to tell apart if he was honest, amidst back-and-forth correspondence. First emails, then letters, sometimes both, sometimes texting even. He thinks of how he had almost texted Newton--Newt-- about this concert, thinking it might be the kind of thing he’d like, then held back because he would be seeing him in person soon for the first time anyway. If only he’d known how soon. 

“Excuse me,” he said abruptly, cutting off whatever Newt had started to say next. Then he grabbed his cane, clumsily getting down from the booth and stumbling towards the bathroom. 

It was a single-person restroom. Hermann staggered in front of the mirror, his cane clattered to the floor and he elected to grip both sides of the sink instead and stare at himself. 

He knew what he had hoped to do after meeting Newton. He knew what he had expected from “Johnny Muse” after Vanessa dropped him off. Now that the two actually ended up being the one, he felt unexpectedly halted, like a wobbling domino refusing to fall. 

_Which way will I tip?_ Hermann wondered. 

There’s a knock at the door. “Hermann?” He doesn’t answer.

  
It pushed open. He didn’t lock it. Newt shut it gently behind him, half-turning away before twisting back to lock it. So no one else barged in, Hermann assumed blandly. 

“What if I would’ve been..?” Hermann gestured vaguely at the toilet behind him. 

“I took a calculated risk and as you know, I’m pretty damn good at math.” He tilted his head and his glasses slid down his nose a bit. “Not as good as you though. You okay?”

Hermann stared at him, the domino still on edge in his mind. Then it tipped decisively.

He surged forward, pushing Newton against the door and kissing him. Newton was motionless for barely a second before he reacted, kissing back fiercely, hands, _hands,_ sliding into Hermann’s hair, nails scratching deliciously across his undercut. 

This time there was no crowd to hide the noise that he made. 

“Oh my god,” he felt more than heard Newton say against his lips, against his cheek, against his neck as he tilted his head up to provide more access. 

It felt like forever and also like no time at all had passed when Newton pushed Hermann back gently, separating their lips. 

He dropped down (Hermann’s heart rate spiked up) before he stood back up and handed him his cane. 

Hermann fidgeted with it, wondering if he did something wrong. He didn’t wonder for long.

“I absolutely want to continue this,” Newton told him, “but I did just do a pretty awesome and intense concert and I’m starving and had actually planned to eat while we were here so is it alright if we press pause here?”

“Yes,” was all Hermann managed with a rough voice. He delighted at the shiver this sent through Newton. 

“Yes,” Newton repeated after him. “Yep. Okay.” And he was out the door. Hermann paused a moment to straighten his shirt in the mirror before following him. 

He did not need Vanessa to pick him up that night and because Hermann is considerate, he texted her to let her know this fact on the way back to Newt’s hotel room. He also let her know that Johnny Muse was in fact one Dr. Newton Geiszler who he’d gushed about to her since their era of communication began. 

Neither he nor Newton looked at their phones again for the rest of the night. 


End file.
